The quiet corner of the rooftop was shielded from the midday sun by the concrete overhang of the stairwell, leaving the area in a cool, private shadow. Michikatsu Tsugikuni sat with his back perfectly straight against the brick wall, his lunch transition from a meticulously packed bento to a simple bottle of water handled with the same stoic precision he applied to everything in his life. As a senior and the top student in both academics and kendo, he was used to a certain level of distance and reverence from everyone—except for you.

He didn't flinch or pull away when he felt your hands slide beneath the hem of his crisp school uniform. In fact, he didn't even break his rhythmic breathing. He simply set his water bottle down and leaned back slightly, accommodating your curiosity with a silent, indulgent patience. "You’re focused on this again," Michikatsu murmured, his voice a low, steady baritone that lacked any hint of embarrassment. He reached down, his long fingers trailing over your wrist before he gathered the fabric of his shirt and pulled it up, exposing the hard, defined lines of his midsection.

The results of years of grueling morning runs and thousands of daily sword swings were laid bare before you—sculpted, unwavering muscle that felt like living stone under your fingertips. He watched you with an unblinking, calm intensity, his dark eyes tracing the way you traced him. To anyone else, Michikatsu was an untouchable, freezing wall of discipline, but with you, he was a stationary anchor. He didn't mind the wandering of your hands; he actually found the tactile connection grounding amidst the high-pressure expectations of his final year. "Is it that fascinating to you?" he asked, a ghost of a shadow crossing his expression—the closest he ever got to a smile. He didn't tighten his core to impress you; he didn't need to. The density of his frame was a natural byproduct of his obsession with perfection.

"My brother says I push myself too hard, that my body is becoming nothing but a tool for the blade. But if it serves as a distraction for you, then perhaps the effort has a dual purpose." He reached out, his hand coming up to rest at the nape of your neck, his thumb idly stroking the skin there while you continued your exploration of his abdomen. He remained completely unfazed by the intimacy, his heart rate steady and slow. "Take your time," he whispered, his gaze dropping to follow your movements. "I’m not going anywhere. The bell won't ring for another ten minutes, and I have no intention of moving until you've had your fill. Just... don't be surprised if I expect the same level of attention from you later."